


Fragments

by Skilv



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Yay depression
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-06
Updated: 2013-05-06
Packaged: 2017-12-10 14:34:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 3,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/787130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skilv/pseuds/Skilv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the fall, all that's left are fragments, moments of weakness in their separate lives.</p><p>(Short drabbles, some pre and most post-reichenbach)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Love

''I love you''

It comes out of nowhere, out of nowhere with John's voice, cutting through the silence hanging from the perforated walls of their home. Sherlock twists his head to look at his flatmate-no, friend, standing next to his chair, the detective himself perched on the sofa with his hands neatly tucked under his chin and legs draped lazily over the armrest, lying halfway across.  
''John?,'' Sherlock asks, brows meeting together. There is a silence between them filled with unsaid things and he feels as though there is an animal unfurling in his stomach. Sherlock Holmes is never, ever nervous. Excited, yes. Not nervous. ''We've...talked about this, John. At Angelo's. Remember?'' He says, slowly, expecting some sort of change in John's features, but he's still there looking at him and smiling with his eyes.  
''I know. I'm not asking for anything, or looking for another kind of relationship with you. It’s fine, we're fine. Just wanted to...let you know. Because I do, Sherlock. I mean, I was...alone, and, well, not happy and now I am and it’s thanks to you. And I love you. Not sure how, exactly, but I just do. And I wanted to let you know,'' he says, speaking in that curt, sort of nervous manner he has, John the army man and his stiff shoulders and pouty lips when he's making a serious statement. Before Sherlock can even say anything, the good doctor turns around and heads to the kitchen, to make tea, obviously (porcelain kettle on the counter, boiler click, tea cupboard opened and closed).

And Sherlock lays there, an elongated sprawl in his blue robe, analysing the full meaning of his slightly elevated heart rate and the smile that is forcing its way to his lips.


	2. Break

There is a faint sound, music devoid of strings, in the back of his mind. His broken, shattered mind. He's standing in the middle of it all, the chaotic order of both their chairs, stacks of papers, books, the skull looking at him with eyes hollow as he is now, the window reflecting a world that no longer seems to exist to John Watson, because there is no world worth living in. Not anymore, not without ebony and greenbluegrey and wood-coloured curls.

John stands in the middle of it all, and finally, if only for this single moment, breaks. His shoulders sag, hands undo fists, his spine muscles relax and the solider is gone. His protection against all the horrors, the loss and the blood is gone, completely and utterly, for a short span of time, an alternate dimension, in which all he can see is ice blue and no blood (no pulse) and he's not sure if he's crying or not, or if that terrible, horrible sound is coming from him or from some nameless monster that surrounds him in its intangible presence, claws at his neck in his lungs inside his whole self, until all that remains is the indescribable feeling that Sherlock's absence creates.

And so John breaks, if only for this single moment, and bares his wounds to the abrasive air and stays there as the blue unfurls in the passing hours. And when dawn breaks, when the first ray of (ice) sun hits his face, he balls is hands in fists, squares his shoulders, takes one last glance, turns, downs the stairs, down the hallway, out the door and into the non-existent world that asphyxiates him, leaving behind his ghost, the soul that flew with Sherlock, flew and fell.


	3. Human

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written on inspiration listening to Human by Civil Twilight

He stands there, at the top of their world. The bluegray of the morning sky tangles in his hair, reflection of his eyes, caressing the buildings of their city, their battlefield. He grips the phone so hard his knuckles are white. And it's cold, and it gets into his bones beneath his wool coat and blue scarf and it freezes the tears that come out. And he feels, he feels this _sentiment_ of desperation for what he is about to do, even if it's all just another magic trick. Because John, his John, is down there telling him he can be that clever, which makes him smile, given the situation. Given what he's about to put John through; because he understands, for the first time in his life, what it is to feel something that simply won't fit in your bones. So he lies, so that John will hate him and move on with his life, so they can all move on and just remember him for the complicated, annoying person he is, even though a little part of him has already died at the simple thought that John, his John, would believe that.

Although, truly, he knows John will never believe his lies. Because John knows him, like no one ever has.

His John. His John, screaming his name one last time, at the top of his lungs, as he flies.

And so he flies, and so he falls, painting a red tree on the pavement, sentiment running through it, telling John, I love you too. Because he does, even though he doesn't know exactly how, just like John had said, but he is certain of why he does. Certain as everything he sees in people's muscles and veins and stains in their clothes that tell him everything there is to know.

He can't be sure when he'll be back, back to this man who has become his main drug, his addiction, his life beyond cold bodies and riddles. He hopes it will not be too long.

_Goodbye, John._


	4. Clouds

John sighs slightly as he fishes the keys of his bleak apartment in the outskirts of London out of his pockets, searching for the right piece of metal, insert in the lock, turn, enter. Always the same. He drops them in the dish at the entrance and turns left to the kitchen, putting the milk inside the fridge and almost screaming at the emptyness in it, no severed limbs.

He sighs again as he enters the main room and sees Mycroft sitting uncomfortably on the only chair he has, eyes fixed on the handle of his umbrella. He's not sure what irritates him most, being kidnapped or having a break-in.  
''How are you doing, John?,'' the British government says in his neutral tone, eyebrow quirked up. John stands in front of him stiffly and represses the urge to punch his perfectly English face.  
''Well, Mycroft, it's been six months since I saw my best friend kill himself and six months since I've been living here alone back to my normal nightmare filled life, and seeing you, the main cause of your _brother_ killing himself, isn't helping me much right now''

Silence, sighs. Today seems like a day for that. It's not even raining, just cloudy and monotone bleakness. There is a hole in John's chest; Mycroft can see it as he gets up, strolls to the door, and without turning around, in a voice almost too faint for John to hear, says, ''I need to worry about someone. Tell me if you need anything''

John grips his cane until his knuckles turn white. His psychosomatic limp hurts, nerves gnawing at his bones. He closes his eyes, and curses Sherlock, over and over until he can forget the image of two broken men in a broken world.


	5. Hunt

He shivers, wraps his coat a bit further around himself. It's cold, colder than he's been in a very long time and his limbs feel stiff, although it was to be expected after hours and hours of waiting, crouched, hidden in the shadows. There is a foggy mist floating in the streets, the early grey hours of morning in the ever damp british weather. The gun is even colder in his gloved hand, resting, sleeping fury ready to awaken in a single burst of physics. 

He misses London. Misses the hospital, his home-made lab, his skull his bed his chair his violin his Jo-

He stiffens as he sees the man appear round the corner of the street. His heart rate elevates, taquycardia, pupils dilate, adrenalin rushes out of his adrenal glands. He is ready for the hunt, after waiting and waiting when he wasn't even sure the man would appear. After waiting and waiting and searching and tracking for days on end. He rushes, his coat dancing behind him, one jaguar leap and it's over in a second, the man is pinned on the wall with the gun biting his throat and growling with bloodlust. Sherlock reaches into the pockets of the man, takes his gun and smiles, a feral, tired grin, which makes it all the more insane.  
''Hello there. By the look on your face, you have probably deduced who I am, so you must know what comes next. Now, let's go upstairs and have a nice chat, shall we? I promise not to hurt you too much if you tell me nicely where your friends are''

Hours and hours go by. His knuckles hurt by the end of it, as does his tired mind, although he suspects not as much as the injuries he's inflicted on yet another man of Moriarty's spider web. He smiles, wipes the blood off his face, watches the broken man in front of him. 

_One step closer, John._


	6. Wrinkles

John looks down to his new flatmate and for the first time in what seems like a lifetime, his lips fight against rust and he smiles. The bulldog puppy is just sitting there, made of small things and too many wrinkles, being lazy after having sniffed out the whole apartment. John crouches next to it and the puppy tries to get on his lap, failing in what could be a miserable way if it weren't so cute.   
''Gladstone, you are. I always wanted a bull named Gladstone,'' he says. The dog is looking at him in what John translates as a Sherlock look, and wonders if he really is going crazy. The Sherlock shaped shadow in the corner is staring at him with empty eyes. John shivers and focuses his attention back to his new friend, picks him up, stands with the little bundle drooling over his shoulder. 

He doesn't cry.


	7. Tremor

His hand trembles as he stares hard at the phone. Trembling....the ghost of a hound, his tongue lashing at John. John. He reads the clear words on the screen, over and over and over.

_Wait for me  
-SH_

His hand trembles. He finds it hard to breathe; his diaphragm is eating itself out, his lungs are filled with carbon dioxide on the verge of hyperventilation. He knows he mustn't do this, it's too dangerous, but he saw him with that blonde woman in that café and even though he wasn't smiling, is really one year, seven months, twenty-seven days, three hourstwominutes enough time to forget him? Is it?  
''Sherlock...,'' the soft, collected voice comes from behind him. If this were any other time of their lives, he would come up with a snide, clever remark, delete the message and make nothing of it. But this is not any other time. This is way too long since he painted John in his blood.  
''We're very close, Sherlock. I know you care for him, more than I had initially assumed, actually...but we're too close now. Don't screw this up because now of all times you developed a sense of caring,'' he hisses the word out almost like venom, his ice man of a brother. 

Sherlock knows he is right, and for what may be the first time in his life, has to really struggle between feelings and logic. Eventually, logic wins, because Sherlock Holmes is a man with a marrow made of rationalization.

_Wait for me, John. Please._


	8. Yellow

It's a nice night outside, for once. It's disturbing, like the whole of the city has gone abnormal just to make him see this isn't what he's supposed to be doing, that this is wrong, that he's only deceiving himself. What else am I supposed to do?, he wants to shout at the sky and make it rain again, cloudy and cold so he can pretend he'll see a coat and blue scarf waiting at home.  
''John? Are you ok?,'' Mary asks, yanking him out of his thoughts. Her pretty yellow hair plays with the glow of the lights of the café, turned down to a soft orange.   
''Yeah, sorry, I've been working a lot these past few days. You'll end up thinking I'm quite the sorry date,'' he says, putting up his best fake smile. He's getting good at this, at pretending. Pretending that there is a hole through his chest only Lestrade can see.  
''Oh, you poor thing. Tell you what? Why don't we go to my place and I'll make you what my Grandma named ''The Booster''. It's just and herbal infusion, really, but it's good to get your strength back,'' she says. Her smile could lit up a whole room, yet it doesn't reach past his cold skin.

He thinks on this proposal. They would go walking to her house, arm in arm, she giggling and pretending to be just a bit tipsy so that when she kisses him in the hallway of her small, modest house, it wouldn't be too awkward. John would kiss her back, one hand on her hip (curves, when all he longs is straight bones), one in her soft, painfully straight hair. And there would be some passion, yes, and physical contact, and sweating between her legs on her bed as she would writhe and moan beneath him, and he'd try to do his best, really, and make her feel good, but he wouldn't be able to cum even, thus leading to disappointment. The hole in his chest would get bigger then, he'd feel like the lowest kind of traitor, would have to leave her house with a pathetic apology never to see her again and make her wonder if it was her fault when the truth is all he can think of is a tall, lean body and scratch his skin away because the pain is just too much sometimes.

Late that night, he leaves her sleeping in her bed and makes his slow way to his own apartment, ignoring the hushed whispers of the shadows forever stalking him.


	9. Storm

It's night again, he notices. He's already lost count of how many have gone by, his body driven by caffeine rather than the pursuit of intellect. Something deep in him tries to whisper memories of a book hunt, a moment that belongs to lifetimes ago. 

Of course, it's only another stake out. He's in an abandoned flat in a mostly abandoned building, the walls cold as he is, with only a chair and a dirty mattress to keep him company. He sits in the chair next to the window, binoculars in his lap, gun in his coat. His brain is fuzzy with the boredom, his cells gnawing themselves out of existence for lack of clever puzzles to solve. It's been a long while since he's had to dance to the melody of mysteries and he feels his insanity grow, slowly but surely, like the stray hairs of a week-old beard he hasn't shaved. Why bother, when his coat is covered in dirt and damp, his clothes overused. Mycroft was right in saying he was slowly becoming one of his homeless network.

Because of the lack of sleep, his senses are dulled and he never hears the clickity clack of shoes behind him.

''Tell him you're alive''

He snaps around, almost tipping the chair as he gets up hurriedly and points a gun to his unexpected visitor, heart racing. All the boredom has vanished from his now clear mind as he sees Irene Adler standing in front of him. Dressed in black, an Asian robe over her shoulders and her face as sharp as a knife cut.  
''Tell him you're alive,'' she repeats, her expression betraying no emotions beneath the general contempt and superiority she always carries with herself like armour.  
''How...how did you find me?.'' Sherlock says, snaps, barking but with no bite in him. Not for her.  
''Please, dear, don't underestimate me. Even Mycroft's people have a taste for the...exotic,'' she replies, tilt of the eyebrow, sex flowing through every cell, empowering her as it always has.  
''You shouldn't even be in the country. Did you fly all the way from Japan just to tell me that?,'' he says, feeling parts of his old self settle back in the right places. The deduction falls into the air and is ignored in such a blatant way, it's as if it never existed.  
''Actually, yes,'' she says and everything goes still, the air between them tensing with the seriousness of it and Sherlock is reminded of the reverse situation. He's too tired to feel disgusted by the irony in it, how they all _care_ so much about each other.  
''You know I can't''  
''Of course I know. I just felt I had to return the favour,'' she eyes him up and down, taking in his appearance. If it were someone else, they would feel pity, but not Irene. ''By the way, the man you're scouting out for has been alerted of your presence here. I suggest you go to the docks and find the ''Seawolf'' tonight at 2.30 am. You'll be in for a treat,'' she says and turns around to leave, her robe billowing behind her.  
''Is he...,'' he starts to say. She stops, not turning to face him. He can feel her smile. ''Is he alright?''

''Of course not, he's become like old paper. Turns to dust at the mere whisper,'' she says with no malice at all. ''He will be, somewhat. If he ends up marrying this Mary girl''

At 4.03 am, he stands in front of a man tied to a chair, surrounded by the fresh corpses of his colleagues. He has no need of the rest; this is his prize. As usual, Irene had been right. As usual, Irene can get under his skin and it may not be chance that the last living man is a blond, young thing. And maybe, just maybe, it's not chance half his scalp ends up in Sherlock's bloody hands.

Just maybe.


End file.
